Love Affair
by FeelTheCold
Summary: She had been cursed from the beginning, barely having been given a chance to make something of herself and thrive. It wasn't as if Fiona could have changed her genetics. - Rated M for chapters to come. This is my first attempt at a Fiona/Axeman fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: The obsession that I have with Fiona, and Jessica Lange in general, is probably really unhealthy, but there's just this little voice in my head that won't allow me to stop toying with the depth of her character. This is going to be a story that I already know I'm interested in continuing, but we'll see how it goes. This is a story that has been set on the backburner for a couple of weeks now, but I've finally gotten around to tweaking it. **

**To my loyal and supportive reviewers, thank you for your kind words. You guys truly keep me level-headed and focused. Your generosity doesn't go unnoticed. Enjoy!**

**~oOoOoOo~**

Difficulty was an understatement, a contradictory word that would have made Fiona crow in beguilement had anything about this situation been humorous. Fiona was having strenuous time, a better description, trying to cope with her contemporary—and not entirely welcomed with open arms—lifestyle. She was, as some would say, a chaotic woman; a witch that had a very cluttered mind, littered with turmoil, longing, brackishness, and most of all… brazen need; a compulsion to be wanted—desired—an unabashed pining that mutilated Fiona from the inside out, clawing at the nethermost and most defenseless areas of Fiona's heart. To the outside world looking in on a very misconceived woman, Fiona seemed to be blunt—perhaps a bit too much for her own good—and insensitive to the needs of the individuals who surrounded her.

To all the world, Fiona was egotistical and entirely narcissistic, considering only her vulgar, licentious appetite, and how she could manage to sate the monster that roared inside of Fiona. To the people that looked upon Fiona, and quite possibly, looked down upon her from their statuesque balconies, Fiona seemed to be a woman who had a heart of steel, an essence filled to the brim with bitterness, and stigma… shame when it came to the subject matter of past events, and how Fiona chose to uphold her image and present herself to the world looking in—a cruel world, a world of death and rot… a world of shit. To a newcomer, perhaps even an individual who had known Fiona for many years, as she was such an intricate soul, Fiona may have appeared to be hollow, having the depth of a kiddie pool, but Fiona was anything but trivial; hollow inside. Fiona was a beacon of passion—raw, unadulterated passion—ardor that could go as far as being described as infatuation, but nevertheless, she_felt_. Fiona experienced so many emotions, so many profound emotions, feelings that often cause Fiona to question her own sanity.

She had lost her mind years ago, gratitude to the Bourbon and cocaine, but Fiona didn't necessarily realize it, not in the beginning. Her supernatural powers aside, Fiona had always been well aware of the fact that she was different, that she varied immensely from the individuals encompassing her. She didn't possess the same mentality as her parents had, for example. Her mother, a bashful—surprisingly—and modest woman, had always believed that sensuality was a sin; a grievous immoral action that should have been conquered early on in life. Fiona's mother, for lack of a better definition, was indeed a bible thumper, following faithfully—blind conviction—in the footfalls of her Lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Fiona's mother had been absolutely appalled, and thoroughly frightened, when, at the age of four years old, Fiona set the family's bible aflame on the Davenport desk situated in the family room, the parchment folded inside of the sacred book sizzling and crackling. Her mother cried that day. Fiona could remember seeing her mother cry harder than the time she'd gotten the phone call informing the young woman of the death of Fiona's grandmother—a proud woman, a woman that stood tall; a woman that spoke her mind. Fiona grew up to resemble her grandmother, not only sharing facial similarities, but parallels pertaining to their thoughts, as well as their personalities. Whereas Fiona was capable, and adept at handling an overflowing platter full of stress, Fiona's grandmother was well spoken; vocal, and voiced her opinions often, even if those opinions ended up looping back around and biting her in the ass.

If Fiona hadn't known any better—more importantly, if she did indeed follow any set religion, which, she didn't—she would have thought herself to be a reincarnated version of her grandmother. She barely knew the woman, having only been a toddler when her grandmother passed, and even then, barely seeing the woman, but Fiona heard stories, lots of stories. It almost felt like Déjà vu, a sense of reliving past events, only through the eyes of another woman… a woman who would have probably grown to be just as ashamed as Fiona's mother was of Fiona.

She had been cursed from the beginning, barely having been given a chance to make something of herself and thrive. It wasn't as if Fiona could have changed her genetics. Even if she had been given the opportunity to do such a thing, she wouldn't. She wouldn't have been able to build herself the empire that she maintained—and was beginning to lose—today. She probably wouldn't have even given life to her precious Delia had she never met her daughter's father, a man that Cordelia never even had the pleasure—insert sarcasm here—of knowing.

Cordelia's father was an intoxicated fool, a man who couldn't tell his ass from a hole in the ground. The first time that he had struck Fiona, had been the last time. He was nothing more than a fling. Fiona never intended to keep the man around, and he knew it—it troubled him to no end; a perpetual ache. His death was made to look like an excruciating, but tragic accident. It would have been thoroughly enjoyable for Fiona, had she not gotten his crimson blood, as cardinal as the horrid hair that was strewn from Myrtle Snow's dandruff-capped scalp, splattered on her newest Zuhair Murad dress, an embellished lace peplum gown. She'd paid big bucks for it, too. Unwillingly, and completely regrettably, Fiona was forced to toss the gown in the trash, replacing it with the next best thing—a Monique Lhuillier dress, a mesh pleated gown with a pair of Ruthie Davis heels, stiletto ankle boots embellished with salient, and polished, spikes in the centre. At least, now, if Fiona were forced to slice the throat of another ill-advised man on the spot, the blood that seeped from his injuries would blend in with the pigments that Fiona showcased, and quite possibly, complimented her hourglass figure; all curves and velvety skin, flesh that begged to be groped and tended to, treated with proper care.

_It's a dance; a dance no one had to teach me; a dance I'd known, since I first saw my reflection in my father's eyes. My partners have been princes and starving artists, Greek gods, and clowns; and every one of them certain they led. But it's always my dance. I make the first move, which is no move at all. I always just understand that they will eventually find themselves in front of me; primitive, beautiful animals and their bodies responding to the inevitability of it all. It's my dance and I have performed it with finesse and abandon with countless partners. Only the faces change and, all this time, I never suspected that the night would come when the dance would end._

It had been so many years since Fiona had a great love affair, and collapsed into bed with a man that really rocked her Charlotte Olympias off. Fiona craved the caress of a man's calloused and rough hands—working hands—descending along the contours of her unsullied body, thick fingers that would sift through the champagne locks of Fiona's effervescent tresses, an embrace that would consist of rippled arms, all muscle and strength, coiling around Fiona's slender midriff, lips that would graze the back of Fiona's neck, directly beneath her hairline—hair that was now starting to shed from Fiona's pampered head—and a deep voice, melodic, yet firm, that would whisper sweet nothings into Fiona's ear, even though both parties knew well enough that the affair would last one evening, and one evening only.

Life was too short to be tied down to another individual's side, expected to be endlessly supportive and nurturing. There were benefits that accompanied marriage. Fiona was no stranger to this, as she had already gone through three husbands of her own, each one more handsome and striking than the last—with much influence in society, wealth and power—but this time around, Fiona wanted love. Fiona pined for a love that would last for an eternity, a love greater than that of Romeo and Juliet's love affair. She wanted to belong to someone, to have the privilege of being able to call someone her own—to find her place in another's embrace, arms that felt like, and resembled, home. In all her years, Fiona had never known a love like the one she desired. She could hope, but at the end of the day, when push came to shove, and it was time to accept the reality that was threatening to slap Fiona square in the face, her dreams would always fall through, and she would be left with nothing.

Fiona had relationships, great relationships—relationships with influential people in today's society, one of the many perks that accompanied the privileges of being the Supreme—but these relationships with so-called friends were merely based on petty interest and a craving for wealth and competence. Fiona had many assets to show for, but a great love affair was not among them. Ever since she had been a little girl, being raised by the Headmistress at the Academy, and growing up within its white walls, Fiona always wanted the things that she couldn't have, things that had always been denied to her. She wanted love. She deserved to be loved, at least, in Fiona's opinion, she did. Tonight would be the night.

_I'm just not ready to go quite yet. I want one more great love affair in my life. Now I think what I really want is just to belong to somebody. It's not too late for that, is it? _

Tonight, Fiona would step out into the world, step out from her Mercedes-Benz and let the world take a good look at her. Tonight, Fiona would live, and feel more alive than she ever had. Tonight, she would find the love the craved, all whilst taking a good roll in the hay; an evening of devotion, imbued with sweaty flesh and open-mouthed moans fueled by unadulterated lust…


	2. Chapter 2 - Katrina

**Author's note: I am seriously so excited to eventually get some interaction between Fiona and the Axeman, but for now, you're just going to have to wait a bit longer. I still have some of Fiona's backstory to cover, which you can expect in the next chapter. I hope y'all enjoy reading this. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Reviews make my day, and really keep me motivated, so feel free...**

**As always, I own nothing, but I really, really wish I did.**

**~oOoOoOo~**

The streets of New Orleans were mobbed with garbage, and even trashier citizens—people who shouldn't have been allowed to regard themselves as natives of the cherished city—a city of witchcraft and voodoo. The Big Easy was the modern Salem, home to many a witch, including the occasional warlock. On the flip side, down in the ninth ward of New Orleans, housing thousands of African American people—voodoo practitioners, no doubt—that had a knack for shitty hair saloons and piss-poor manicures and pedicures, were houses that had been run down and ramshackled, all gratitude to Hurricane Katrina. That storm had been thought to be the storm of a lifetime, stealing so many innocent souls along with it. Fortunately, Fiona hadn't been among the casualties—the collateral damage—that accompanied Hurricane Katrina. She had been one of the deadliest and most destructive storms New Orleans had ever seen in 2005.

_Speaking of tourist guides… No More Spray. I have been to St. Louis No. 1 and I have seen the tomb of Laveau. Seen the fat tourists from Little Rock to Hackensack drawing crosses on the bricks, making wishes to the bones of Marie Laveau. Little do they know, all they have to do to get their wishes granted was come down here to the Ninth Ward and get their hair braided._

The only reason Fiona hadn't met her demise when Hurricane Katrina rolled into New Orleans, was because she was out of town, exploring the world—India, Sweden, France, the Czech Republic—all the while obliterating her obligations to the coven, and only sating the urgencies that intrigued Fiona. She was, as many would care to describe, a fish out of water when she wasn't out living her life as she saw fit and over-indulging in the finest things that life had to offer to the Supreme. She'd dropped her daughter off at the Academy's doorstep and ran for the hills, chasing after her dreams—dreams that would end up looping back around and biting Fiona right in her shapely ass—and meeting new people, all kinds of individuals of different cultures. The world had so many incredible things to offer, but the world was also a dark place; a place of tragedy, a place of death and corrosion.

The world was, in itself, a blessing just as much as it was a curse. There was so much evil in the world, so many vile people that were responsible for committing the most heinous of crimes. These people were simply given a slap on the wrist by the higher authority that governed over New Orleans, as if they did anything other than sit on their asses and make it appear that they were actually doing something productive, something that would benefit its people.

Productivity was a characteristic that had never quite been instilled in Fiona. She didn't care for others, only herself—she was, in fact, a self-absorbed woman—but that didn't necessarily prevent Fiona from feeling. She experienced so many emotions; feelings that would have unraveled her at her loose seams if she allowed them to. Emotionally, Fiona could have been sent hurdling to her knees quite easily. Physically, was a different story. She didn't just give her body up to any one man. Fiona was finicky, probably too much for her own benefit, and inconsiderate—completely impolite, when surrounded by certain individuals. She wasn't the type of person to be found playing nice with her enemies; keeping her assailants close to her. The only intimacy was the heads of Fiona's enemies watching her from their respected hooks on the wall, their comatose eyes, once harboring beautiful and lively souls, scrutinizing her every move with the worst of intentions, observing as she shared an evening of penchant with one of her many lovers; sometimes, two, in just one night.

_The point is, in this whole wide wicked world the only thing you have to be afraid of is me._

Even in her elder years, Fiona was a voluptuous woman. Her hair was a luxuriant shade of champagne. It flowed in locks to embellish her incandescent, porcelain-like skin. Her eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, were an overcast pigment of chocolate—sinister in their nature—and seemed to brighten, as well as blacken simultaneously, the world. A straight nose, one that complimented her high cheekbones wonderfully, full lips—she was the image of utter perfection; an angel that had fallen from heaven too soon—and certainly had lived up to the reputation of a fallen deity.

_Had she smiled, the world would sigh with contentment. Had she laughed, the world would laugh with her. And had she wept, the whole world would want to comfort her._

Though she may have been a physically attractive woman, a timeless pulchritude with florid eyes of pyre, a siren that was in favor of indulgence, she was fierce—as menacing and relentless as the harshest of storms, and the most reprehensible of murderers—and would not hesitate to take someone down if she saw fit to do so. When Fiona spoke, her words articulated with such grace, yet an underlying tone of undeniable jurisdiction, people listened. They either convulsed with fear—penetrating apprehension surging through their arteries, as salient and painful as a knife piercing ivory flesh—or they followed her lead, loyal to the cause—either because they truly believed in Fiona's motive, or because they didn't want to suffer the consequences of her vengeful wrath—but either way, Fiona was happy; her scatological appetite sated… for a time.

The time would, however, arrive when Fiona no longer had any flesh and blood to sate that scatological appetite. She craved a man, an ascendant man—a man that wasn't afraid to take over the reins—a man that would suitably tend to the incessant desires of Fiona's body. The men that she chose to associate herself with always believed that they led the dance, the provocative—even arousing—dance that Fiona cavorted to, her body swaying like windchimes in the crisp evening air, responding to the gentle caress of the wind… the intimacy that sizzled within the air of two things so simple, yet incredibly intricate.

_It's a dance, a dance no one ever had to teach me. A dance I've known since I first saw my reflection in my father's eyes. My partners have been princes and starving artists, Greek gods and clowns. And every one of them certain they lead. But it's always my dance. I make the first move, which is no move at all. I've always just understood that they will eventually find themselves in front of me. Primitive, beautiful animals. Their bodies responding to the inevitability of it all. It's my dance and I have performed it with finesse and abandon with countless partners. Only the faces change. And all this time, I never suspected the night would come when the dance would end._

The dance. Time and time again, she returned to the concept of her dance—the gossameriness of her fluent movements, the sway of her curvaceous hips, the delicate graze of the pads of Fiona's fingers as they trailed along her naked flesh; exposed flesh—skin that was made to be caressed, to whispered upon, abraded with open-mouthed kisses and the bite of a slick tongue as it traipsed along her curves. Her body was filled to the brim with curves, firm flesh that was so velvety, but in shape. She was, pardon the cliché, as beautiful as the evening stars in the sky. To many men, Fiona had hung the moon and the stars, but not all that glitters is gold. She had a dark side to her, a villain that lurked beneath the masquerade of an alluring face. A monster that roared; howling, surging through her veins—a monster that craved blood, the thrumming heart of a willing lover, like sand that slipped through the spaces between Fiona's fingers.

This monster coveted blood, and would stop at no lengths to sate its pining.

She wanted a lover, a fighter—a rebel—someone to make Fiona _feel_ alive, more viable than in all her years of living.

Indeed, she found that lover. A rough man, about her own age—but beauty was in the eye of the beholder. He possessed all of the bells and whistles that an adequate lover should, finesse—_abandon_—a _profound_ knowledge of the human body, and in particular, Fiona's body. It was as if they had been cavorting together for several years. Indeed, they were—but Fiona wasn't aware of that. In the brink of death, the most atrocious of fates, she had felt the most alive—really feeling something, for the first time in a long time. But, unfortunately, after that evening, it was back to the drawing board—back to Fiona's now ordinary life, a life that held no meaning—a life that was all routine and work. There was no play. It was all seriousness.

Fiona was, always had been, and would probably always be, one of the shittiest Supremes to ever rise within the coven. She acknowledged that whilst ambling through the Academy's front door, a sigh of complete discontentment escaping her chapped lips, her elliptical face void of any makeup, for she was too preoccupied with the passion-inculcated evening to mind any attention to her appearance.

For the first time in quite a long time, Fiona enjoyed herself.

She thoroughly enjoyed the company that she had been in…

…And she couldn't wait to wrap herself within the man's embrace again—the murderous man, the man with a dead body in his bathtub, hacked to pieces, drowning in his own blood—over and over again.

In such a dangerous love affair, she found purpose—motivation.

Fiona would survive, even if she died in the process of trying.


	3. Chapter 3 - Blossoming

**Author's note: If I told you that I'm slowly starting to become obsessed with this story, I would be lying. I'm in love with this story, and starting to question my sanity... but that isn't a complaint! Expect some Fiona/Axeman interaction in the next chapter...**

_The curse of mortality. You spend the first portion of your life learning, growing stronger, more capable. And then, through no fault of your own, your body begins to fail. You regress. Strong limbs become feeble, keen senses grow dull, hardy constitutions deteriorate. Beauty withers. Organs quit. You remember yourself in your prime, and wonder where that person went. As your wisdom and experience are peaking, your traitorous body becomes a prison. - Brandon Mull_

* * *

**~ 1961 ~**

Fiona was dressed in a couture a lace gown that dipped lower, the swells of her ample breasts spilling from the V-Neck that had been carved into the silky material. On the dress-a black dress, as dark as the raven sky at midnight-was a crimson rose plastered on the chest of the garment, illustrated by the hand of a starving artist-raw talent surging through those veins, and an eye for detail-with acrylic paint.

"Fiona! I thought you had gone with the other girls down to Jackson Square to burn your bra," Anna-Lee Leighton, the Supreme of the era crooned at the young woman standing before her.

"Why? So I can gag on the toxic fumes coming off all that burning Playtex? No thanks." A sardonic smirk had staked its claim upon Fiona's plush lips-voluminous in their nature-as she stepped forward, her hands waving in synchronization in the encompassing atmosphere that was existent between the two women-one older, no longer in her prime, while the other was youthful as ever... a blossoming Supreme.

The conversion drug on and on, for what seemed to be for hours-and Fiona had long since lost interest in anything that came out of the Supreme's mouth.

"They say when a new Supreme starts to flower, the old Supreme begins to fade. You've been fading, Anna-Lee," she murmured, suggestively glancing down at the woman's clutch full of pills.

"Shall I show you my power?" The blonde, with overly-accentuated breasts, no doubt at the hands of a plastic surgeon, spoke, her defense mechanism failing. There was nothing frightening about the woman. Her time was up.

"You're weak, Anna-Lee. We both know why. Diabetes, heart trouble, liver failure, God knows what else. As I get stronger, you get weaker," Fiona's melodic accent hung in the air as she bent forward, grasping the woman's handbag-a small piece of fabric, cheap as hell-in her hand, and tossing the contents of it on the canvas below, a canvas that would soon be the Supreme's... bloody... resting place.

"You vicious little gash. I've seen the ruin you will bring this coven if you are allowed to take power now. You're a selfish, craven little child, Fiona. And I will make it my mission to ensure that you will never take the throne. I'll see you burn in hell first."

The older woman's words elicited a laugh from Fiona's lips.

Oh, she was going to hell-her place; Satan's throne, a throne that Fiona completely intended to claim as her own when she reached the fiery pits-in every religion. Fiona couldn't be saved, the saints could do nothing to aid the young woman. She was too far gone, and she certainly didn't mind it. It wasn't a complaint, but rather... something along the lines of bragging rights.

"Save me a spot," Fiona whispered, the knife clutched within her hands making contact with Anna-Lee's throat-slashing into her jugular-and swiping across the creamy flesh just below her chin. Her blood seeped from the jagged wound as if the levees of New Orleans had burst apart as a consequence of Hurricane Katrina's vengeful wrath-mother nature's cruel way at exacting revenge from the natives of The Big Easy-and splattered onto Fiona's dress. It was a shame really, to waste such a beautiful-extravagant-piece of attire on dirty blood.

**~ 1979 ~**

_The music roared. _

People were dancing, cavorting around like fools, encouraging the foolish behaviors of one another-all a part of the hype, the mood of the party-and Fiona, in her prime, with a rockin' body and all walks of life-men and women, of all ages-chasing after her.

Fiona's dress was cut short-short enough to bear witness to the string of her tampon had she been ragging it-and exposed a hefty amount of her thighs; creamy flesh, smooth flesh... flesh that pleaded-begged-to be caressed, to be grazed upon by the bite of a slick tongue.

Indeed, her flesh had been tended to-properly, if she might add-by countless men, men who had everything... money, some having wives, a large cock.

In her day, Fiona had been quite a vixen. She was wild in her prime, careless, with a nasty habit of believing that she was invincible, that the parties and the rowdy nights out around town would never fade.

Fiona had been drunk off of her ass, her legs parted for the next man to walk in through the door. She was the Supreme. She had it all. One thing, however, that she did not have, was a form of contraceptive, and it was a mistake that would haunt her for the next eighteen years.

She'd fallen into bed with a man in his late thirties, his arms rippled with countless muscles, the strength of a thousand men-all in one body-and the voice of a country crooner, an accent that sent a jolt of lightning to Fiona's mind-setting her thoughts aflame, as well as the bundle of nerves that was nestled between the juncture of her taut thighs. He was a _man_, a man of many talents-a man with the tongue of a serpent, flicking and caressing...

His hands, large hands-thick fingers-were settled against either side of Fiona's hips, groping... squeezing the ample flesh-something to grab ahold of-as his head bowed between her legs.

His tongue-a sleek tongue, a tongue that fondled every nook and crevice of Fiona's abdomen-traced along the interior flesh of her thighs. He was purring, the vibrations of his lips so near-and dear-to her womanhood eliciting a moan of such desire, such _lust _from Fiona's lips.

Never in her life had she felt an ache that throbbed as intensely as the ache between her legs-the coil of nerves in her stomach, her response to his tongue exploring every inch of her sacred body-a body that deserved to be worshiped-as his touch set every inch of her body aflame, a perpetual fire-the intensity of its heat-burning so hot, Fiona thought she would die; succumb to the fervency, and draw her last breath, a quaking breath... a breath that was released during an orgasm-an exhalation of all abandon, all rational thoughts-the sweetest asphyxiation of all.

Finally, _finally_, his tongue made contact with Fiona's clit-pulsating in the anticipation of the moment-and he devoured her. His tongue lapped at her flesh like a starving man eating a decent meal for the first time in weeks. Fiona's legs were parted, legs that went on for days... hung over the man's shoulder-a man whom Fiona barely knew; she didn't even know his name-and yet both parties were here, enjoying themselves... succumbing to the wild passion-fervent devotion-that refused to be tamed.

Climax after climax, each orgasm more powerful-so much more intense-than the last, Fiona's spine was arched, her torso suspended above the mattress below her. It was if time had stood still, lost to the world-lost to Fiona's world. Then, as quickly as it had come-as quickly as Fiona came-she crashed from her high, her body trembling, every nerve-every individual nerve lurking beneath her pallid flesh-on fire, sensitive to the touch.

The ache inside of Fiona roared. It roared like a wild animal, untamed. _Fiona _howled like a beast, a monster that craved flesh; a monster that needed to taste the saccharine blood of its victim. She needed to be full, to be _complete_... to be filled, filled with so many things-but one in particular.

The man above Fiona, and the goddess below him-the blossoming Supreme of the time-had wrestled each other on the bed for several moments before Fiona rose to the top with the upperhand, grappling the man on his back. She tore at his clothing-expensive clothing, attire that could have been donned upon a King's body-and sunk down herself upon his length-sans protection, or any form on contraception-her flesh accommodating his substantial girth.

Ever so slowly-_painstakingly_, even-Fiona rocked forward, and all was lost...

...Several months later, she'd learned of her daughter's conception, and in that moment-the moment of weakened knees, of disbelief... of regret-to Fiona, her life had seemingly reached its end, a brutal end.

_What the hell was she going to do with herself?_


	4. Chapter 4 - Rain

**Author's note: Hello! I'm still alive! Real life just got crazy for a while, but I fully intend to see this story out until the end. I promised some Fiona/Axeman interaction in this chapter, but... this is just one of those stories that turns in a completely different direction than what you originally intended. Nonetheless, y'all have some real treats in store... **

**I'll be updating quite frequently. **

**This chapter is a bit slow and uneventful, but bear with me! The story will pick up shortly. :)**

**~ OoOoOo ~**

_Pick it up, pick it all up. And start again. You've got a second chance, you could go home. Escape it all. It's just irrelevant. It's just medicine. It's just medicine. You could still be what you want to, what you said you were, when I met you. You've got a warm heart, you've got a beautiful brain. But it's disintegrating, from all the medicine..._

Left and right, the teenagers that called Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies home were screwing with Fiona's paraphernalia, testing a patience that had never been in existence, and slowly, but surely, scrawling their names upon her parchment... on her shitlist. The little peckerheads that had been welcomed in the Academy by her daughter were giving Fiona a migraine the size of England.

England. Fiona adored England, along with its people. They were a different breed entirely, unlike the morbidly obese and ignorant Americans that populate the states. God, where has the glamour gone? Streets that had once been engrossed with deluxe vehicles and individuals of the first class are now replaced with debris and rot, litter than can be piled up to Fiona's neck. New Orleans... The Big Easy... Louisiana had once been a state of such promise, such high esteem. After this coven's ancestors had fled from their homes in Salem and relocated to Louisiana, New Orleans became known as the next Salem—the renovated Salem, modernized and suffused with natives who are none the wiser to the witchcraft that encompasses them, day after day—the danger that has always been existent, but has been hiding in the shadows until it was tantalized; provoked... encouraged to make an appearance.

The _danger_ that prowled in the New Orleanian's beloved city was the descendants from Salem, always on guard, always ready to strike. Uneducated humans are unpredictable in their nature, negligent, even—and are easily convinced to follow absurd movements and ideas. The very nonsensical concept lingering in Fiona's mind was the act of burning a witch, whether they be supposed or authentic, at the stake—a ritual that is still performed to this day, though it is more common to occur inside of the coven, as opposed to outside—done by the witch hunters.

Witch hunters had always been present, for as long as Fiona could recall. As a girl, before her own mother, a mortal—a frightened mortal, panicked by her own daughter's potential—had dropped Fiona off at the doorstep of the Academy, and hightailed her ass out of New Orleans, out of the country, perhaps. She had always been amused by oblivious humans, people who are too panic-stricken to ask, and alas, choose to assume. Assuming is an asinine thing to do. Assumptions can get a person killed. The witch hunters that populate—unfortunately, mind you—the North American continent were some of the biggest culprits discovered to be blameworthy of said assumptions. Witch hunters followed tradition, ancestors who have taught them to despise all witches, a characteristic that runs in the blood—almost like a second nature. What the witch hunters don't realize, however, whether they are too uninterested or just oblivious to the fact, Fiona wasn't certain, was that the descendants of Salem... they aren't the enemies. The witches have been trying, and failing, gratitude to outside forces, to exist in peace with the surrounding humans for centuries. Every so often, a nitwit who has the fortitude to publicly label herself as a witch will slip up, and endanger the entire coven's safety. It brings Fiona great pleasure to exterminate said witches.

Still, Fiona was exhausted—drained, quite literally, of her life force—and am growing very weary of fighting, but the battle has not yet been won, nor has it been lost. Defeat was something that made Fiona grit her teeth, almost to the point that her ivory— and flawless—canines shatter within her mouth. Defeat... it's a word that didn't exist in Fiona's vocabulary.

The true enemy here, the assailant that the witch hunters have been looking over—the enemy that was living, and continuing to breed—was existing just beneath their noses. The witch hunters were unable to sniff the voodoos out because they didn't have a clue as to what they should have been searching for. Most of the concepts that are held by witch hunters have been pulled from their asses, and considered to be the truth. Witch hunters are clueless, clueless of the power that Fiona possesses, clueless when it comes down to the ache of her wrath, a wrath that will certainly put the most heinous crime to shame. No one... absolutely no one... questions Fiona's power. The ones that do, don't live to tell the tale. Cancer or not, she was the head witch bitch in charge. She was the Supreme of all witches, and refused to stand by as Cordelia's little shitheads threw her schedule into disarray, _complete chaos._

Downstairs, Fiona was able to hear the liquor cabinet being opened, some dotard of a student, with their sticky god damn fingers, slobbering all over my shit. For the second time in one evening, Fiona trotted down the steps with grace, her stride one of elegance, the traipse of an _aristocrat_, only to catch another girl, not a woman, snooping in her things..._ practically begging for trouble._ Fiona was in the mood to rip someone's head off and shit down their throat, if provoked enough. . . .

"What do you think you're doing?" She ground the words out, her voice imbued with accusation, her tone menacing, the expression plastered upon her aging visage even more intimidating. It's very possible... and completely likely... that she would be capable of scaring the shit out of the boogeyman himself.

Her arms were intertwined around her svelte midriff, the bulk of her exposed hip, the flesh velvety as the moonlight danced over it propped up against the wall. She had a sour expression plastered upon her compelling visage, her lower lip contorting back in distaste. She wasn't impressed with the young girl frolicking around the ancestor room like a god damn monkey, imbibing on Fiona's whiskey. She is scrawny, all bones and no meat. She certainly isn't built like a woman. . . . And Fiona knew what a woman looked like. She has spent a fair share of her evenings in bed with women—all curves, pale flesh, a honeyed and refreshing fragrance about her... a certain _confidence_ in her swagger.

This girl is a drunken fool, a girl by the name of Madeline. So far, Fiona had been able to keep her hidden within the Academy's walls with ease, gratitude to Spalding's assistance. That man... even if it is a humerus way to describe him... will follow her around like a lost puppy dog if she allowed him to. Then again, most men did. Fiona not concerned about Spalding's allegiance to her, nor did she question his loyalty. For fuck's sake, the man sliced his own tongue out of his head to save her life. She very well could have lost her life in the days following Anna-Leigh Leighton's death... at her hands, _no doubt. _

Inflicting grievous bodily harm upon a Salem descendant is regarded as one of the heinous crimes... and is only punishable by one fate—death by fire. She wouldn't call it luck... but she knew she was fortunate to be alive right now. . . . But Jesus Christ, the coven—her daughter, in particular—couldn't know about Madeline's presence in the Academy just yet. That would completely foil Fiona's plans. Her daughter was like a god damn Nazi. She documents each and every event that occurs in her students' lives. It isn't _that_ interesting, nor are their small-town lives fascinating. Delia's students were wimps. A _disgrace_ to the coven.

_That's why we become witches: to show our scorn of pretending life's a safe business, to satisfy our passion for adventure. It's not malice, or wickedness - well, perhaps it is wickedness, for most women love that - but certainly not malice, not wanting to plague cattle and make horrid children spout up pins and - what is it? - "blight the genial bed."_

_One doesn't become a witch to run around being harmful, or to run around being helpful either, a district visitor on a broomstick. It's to escape all that - to have a life of one's own, not an existence doled out to by others._

If the girls living in the Academy wanted to see something impressive, they should have taken a look at the reputable life Fiona had lead. She's traveled the world, met natives of various cultures. She had lead a life of luxury, a noteworthy life, unlike these juvenile adolescents who couldn't pull a fucking rabbit out of a hat. The only taste of life these _children_ have ever had was the taste of Fiona's Bourbon, the taste of some real zest—some excitement. _Fiona's whiskey._

With a melodramatic gyration of fawn irises, she ambled forward, the footfalls of her crimson pumps reverberating against the four alabaster walls that encompassed Madeline and Fiona, though the young girl is none the wiser to Fiona's presence. The music that she was playing playing was dreadful. It sounded like a dying whale. And more importantly... it would bring attention to Madeline's presence. Fiona already discussed this with her. _Jesus Christ_, Fiona knew she wasn't an intelligent young woman, but she could at least _try_ to keep her presence hidden for the time being, until she received Fiona's blessing.

Fiona scoffed, her hand flicking off towards the side, and on its release, send the speakers that are blasting some caterwauling voice of a piss-poor musician to the farthest wall, making a point to the girl, that her magic knew no bounds.

"Shouldn't you be drinking from some juicebox? A Capri Sun or some shit?" Fiona's voice, melodic, with a slight rasp, flows through the atmosphere like silk, hanging in the ambiance between Madeline and herself. Fiona arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, tipping her weight to one hip as it slants lower than the other, her manicured, grand fingers situated upon either side of her waist. Her stance is one of influence, a leader. _Royalty._

"Why don't you run along now, go find someone to play with—and leave the drinking to the adults. It is my liquor, after all." Fiona's eyes twinkled as she belittled the girl standing before her, her shoulders now slumped forward. Fiona relished in picking others apart from their seams, using each flaw that they possess against them. She enjoyed it, just about as much as she enjoys drinking.


End file.
